


The Lady Pursues

by Apeygirl



Series: The Crewe Legacy [1]
Category: AUSTEN Jane - Works, Original Work
Genre: 1800s, Cross-Posted on Wattpad, F/M, Historical, Original Character(s), Regency, Regency Romance, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-15 19:30:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13620174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apeygirl/pseuds/Apeygirl
Summary: She's an incorrigible flirt and he is certainly not tempted. Not one bit!Bright, optimistic, and possibly a bit naïve, Charity Crewe, the youngest in her family, grew up accustomed to being indulged in all things but one: her shameless attachment for Ian Douglass.Though Ian was raised on the estate and generously given lessons with the Crewe siblings, no one, especially Ian Douglass, has ever forgotten he is the housekeeper's son.  Charity Crewe may never have cared what anyone thought, but Ian certainly does.  He's worked too hard to secure his position to risk his livelihood, not to mention his mother's. He's discouraged her affections at every turn.However, while Charity is away gaining some polish, circumstances drastically change and  Charity must decide if she is willing to risk everything, even complete and utter ruin, in pursuit of the man she loves.***********This story is posted, much further along, to Wattpad if you're in a hurry for more (just search the title).





	The Lady Pursues

**Author's Note:**

> If you find yourself intrigued, feel free to search this title on Wattpad. I've been drafting this there to see if it's as motivating to have an audience as I go on original works as it is on fanfic. I thought I'd try it out here as well to see if anyone who enjoys my fic would like to see what I'm up to now. If there's enough engagement, I'll keep posting. But I know this site isn't usually the place for originals.
> 
> This is planned and outlined as a four-book series. The plan is to finish it completely and submit it to publishers or eventually (very eventually) pull it and publish it myself. But that is so far off and I'd love to have some people along for the journey as I go.

****

**Prologue  
**

_1801_

"I've quite given up on them," Constance declared as she closed the door to The Rose Room.

Fiona scarcely had to ask who she meant. She only poured, waiting for her mistress to begin.

Constance, The Right Honourable Lady Crewe whenever she had the rare opportunity to use the formal title, had taken to having tea with her housekeeper, Mrs. Fiona Douglass, in The Rose Room on Mondays. It had been only a half-year since Fiona had come into her employ, but Constance had come to depend upon this hour. The object was always to properly plan the week ahead as far as meals, linens, supplies of candles, the odd formal dinner, the ever-dwindling budget, but the tea always devolved into a discussion of her three children and the attendant woes.

"Ah, if only we could afford a nanny," Constance sighed. "This is all too much for me to bear alone."

Mrs. Douglass rather wondered how her days, not to mention those of the other staff, were so full with the children if Lady Crewe was truly bearing it all alone, but she kept her counsel on that. "Surely they are all high-spirited, but all wee ones are."

"They are also terribly stubborn, quite set on having their own way. And I chose such lovely, humble names for them."

Constance Abbot came from a family with Puritans in their lineage. Though the Abbot family had been decidedly Church of England for two generations now, she did like the idea of virtuous names. Upon marrying William Crewe, third Baron Crewe, she convinced her ever indulgent husband to allow her to name the children after qualities she admired. Her eldest Prudence, now nine years of age, was supposed to be all that was frugal, cautious, and wise. On that last note, she couldn't complain very much, as Mrs. Douglass liked to remind her.

"The girl certainly likes to read," Mrs. Douglass said bracingly. "Why I've seen her finish a book in little more than a day and Mr. Keen is certainly impressed with her studies." She'd sometimes dined with the tutor and he'd always seemed quite sincere in his praise of the eldest Miss Crewe, especially as compared to her brother.

"Yes, but she likes to read entirely too much," Lady Crewe lamented. "I feel it's rather imprudent, if you ask me. That's not even going into the money spent on pencils, paper... She sketches all through dinner. Do you know she wants to try her hand at watercolors now? That will mean canvas, paints..."

"But surely you can afford such trifles."

"William certainly thinks we can. She has but to ask and he indulges her." She sighed. "And what will be left for her dowry in the end?" Lady Crewe was always cognizant of having two daughters, even as young as they were, and fearful for their future prospects. "He hasn't settled an amount and you know his family won't aid us there. Lord knows I try my best, but they still believe he's married beneath him, even with that harridan aunt and her  _cloth_ money."

Though Constance Crewe, before marriage, was the daughter of a gentleman with a modest estate in Cheshire, she certainly married upward in Lord Crewe, a man with a larger estate and a baron to boot. Of course, that was nothing to the seat of his family who, it might be argued, owned most of Yorkshire. Much of that wealth was gained through the Duke of Dartmore's marriage to Muriel Harrod-Crewe, Duchess of Dartmore and her "cloth money." Constance Crewe might not be from the most well-connected family, but she congratulated herself that none of them had ever sullied their hands with trade.

On that note, Mrs. Douglass usually liked to keep her own counsel as well. Though she quite liked her mistress and appreciated the degree of intimacy they enjoyed, she would never truly understand the nobility and their distaste for anything that even resembled work. Her husband certainly never... Well, she kept her counsel on that subject as well. Suffice it to say, she didn't believe in a life of idleness. Her own son, Ian, had lessons with the Crewe children, but often spent his spare hours with the gardener or the coachman and she encouraged it. She didn't mean to judge the little Crewes, of course. They were fine children and always pleasant with her and her dear Ian. She couldn't have wished for a happier placement.

"Idle hands are the devil's workshop," Mrs. Douglass suggested, hoping her mistress might look on Prudence's art as a virtuous endeavor. "Doesn't The Bible say as much?"

"I'm afraid that was Chaucer. Another scandalous poet my Prudence insists on reading. Ah, but I suppose it could be worse. Ernest is truly the hardest burden we have to bear. So ill behaved."

"Still, there's time for him."

"Not as much as you'd think, my dear Fiona."

The Honourable Ernest Crewe had so far proved to be, at the age of seven, and possibly like most boys of seven, less than honorable. He lobbed paper balls into his sisters' hair at every lesson, Cook was positive tarts went missing every time he neared the kitchen, and poor little Charity's favorite doll was missing her head. He couldn't be called earnest, either, as the evidence was always overwhelmingly against him in each offense, yet he denied it all without a blush.

"I'll see if Ian can set him right," Mrs. Douglass tried. Although her son was a fair sight lower than the Crewe children in station, he was nearly a year older than Ernest and boys always tended to look up to their elders. She flattered herself that there was no boy worthier of looking up to than her own Ian. It had taken some time for him to adjust, of course, when they had left Scotland, and her other positions weren't nearly as tolerant of a widow who came with a child. But he was certainly doing well enough at Crewe House. Why, Mr. Keen said he was learning apace with Miss Prudence, and a full year younger, too.

"I wish you would," Constance moaned, reaching for another sandwich only to push it away. "That boy will be the end of me. The end of this house, to hear his father tell it. Ah, well. At least I have my sweet Charity."

Charity Crewe, being only five, had yet to disappoint her mother, even a mother who was so easily disappointed. She had, upon learning her name and its meaning, endeavored to be worthy of it. At the age of three, she'd taken a box of her most precious belongings to the village and, upon speaking to the children in the square, had decided who would make the best use of her blocks, her dolls, and her music boxes. At the age of four, she had done the same and also commissioned Cook to make a basket of jam tarts and date breads for her basket while the gardener, coachman, and even the butler carried last year's toys and dresses behind her. This year, she had asked for three of everything she wanted as "it was so very unfair" if she was the only girl with the latest doll or dress.

Truth be told, neither her mother nor father could see fit to refuse her. Even when she stamped her little foot, she was too precious to be denied. Even Cook, stern as she was, could scarcely begrudge the little thing an extra cake when she tilted her head just so. Therefore, when Little Charity poked her head into the study, both her mother and her housekeeper were prepared to be delighted by whatever she might say. What she did say was as delightfully silly as expected.

"I am going to marry Ian, Mrs. Douglass," she said, her little voice low and sincere.

"Are you now?" Mrs. Douglass had to smile.

Her mother chuckled. "Last week, Charity was going to marry Mr. Martin, the Baker, because his butter biscuits had raspberry jam in the middle."

"This is serious," Charity insisted, her red curls bouncing as she nodded.

"Surely," Mrs. Douglass gave her a very grave nod in return, "but I'll have you know Ian has never baked a thing."

"He's the only man who knows how to treat a fair lady. He saved me and Clarissa and everything!"

She closed the door soon after and both ladies had a hearty laugh over the idea. Later, they learned that Ian and Ernest had been playing pirates and only Ian had thought to spare the fair lady and her doll from a walk on the plank. Charity had quite liked being a fair lady and had followed Ian, even without her doll, for days now.

_1806_

Constance, Baroness Crewe when she was feeling official, and Mrs. Fiona Douglass took tea every Monday and never had it felt so official as this. Mrs. Douglass practically skidded past in her haste to reach the door, so serious was the matter. Punishments had been given, supper had been withheld, guilty parties had been hiding their shameful faces for hours now, but Constance and Fiona had yet to discuss it, both tied up with their own children.

It was particularly hard for Fiona. Her Ian had yet to be punished at all until just now. He'd had yet to deserve it. But Ian and Ernest had somehow ended up drunk. Yes, drunk. At the ages of twelve and thirteen, in the Earl of Stanborough's gamekeeper's cottage with the Earl of Stanborough himself, the boys had drunk themselves into a state of inebriation that had them unable to eat. Well, unable if they were allowed at meals, which they were not this evening. Still, she suspected they'd be unequal to a meal in any case.

"And how is Ernest?" she said as she made her way into The Rose Room.

"Still casting up his accounts." Constance picked up a cheese sandwich then seemed to think better of it, pushing it away. "And Ian?"

"No better than he deserves to be, the little lout."

"Now, we mustn't blame Ian."

"Oh, yes, we must. He's older and he should know better than..."

"If anyone should know better it's that... that..." Constance had very little to say about the Earl of Stanborough, or very little that was nice. She really did try to be kind and to hold her tongue when she couldn't, but this was too much to bear. "...that vile little... Richard. I barely think he deserves a title, the way he carries on."

Fiona took her seat, nodding violently. "At fifteen years old, he certainly should know better."

"But how could he? His own father was a drunken lout who got himself trampled and that mother..." Constance shook her head. "It's no matter. This is no place for sympathy. This is a place for planning." She leaned forward and Fiona was sure she wasn't talking about the linen rotations or this week's dinners. "We must keep our boys away from Richard Headley from now on. The girls, too." Constance sat up straight. "Truth be told, I worry most about Prudence."

Fiona tilted her head. "What did Prudence-"

"I dare say half the village is talking of it by now. I'm sure vile Richard's gamekeeper has been telling it all over for the price of a pint. I heard it from the post mistress, myself."

"What?"

"She hit him."

Fiona let out a startled laugh. "Well, someone had to and if Prudence..."

"You don't understand. She knocked him flat." Constance sighed. "I asked her about it and she said it was a method she learned from a guide to pugilism. What is that girl doing with her time? Certainly not attending her dancing master or her piano lessons. What will we do when she's out?"

Fiona worried more about Ernest and Ian and what they were doing with their time than Prudence. She'd always been a dear girl and, maybe it was the Scot in her -- something she'd tried to get rid of since... Well, since the end of Mr. Douglass -- but she couldn't fault Prudence for a well placed punch.

When Lord Crewe came in, in one of his rare visits to their tea in consideration of the dramatic goings on, he seemed to be in agreement with Mrs. Douglass. "Come now, I've heard of the way he teases her. The boy was asking for one. Besides, If Ernest won't look out for himself, we should be glad Prudence will do it for him. If only she could inherit for him as well," he finished on a mutter.

Lady Crewe gasped. "I hope you don't say things like that to Prudence. That girl will never be ready to take her place in society if you keep encouraging her to be a bluestocking."

"The Blue Stockings are older than either of us, my pet, and they never did manage to rend the fabric of society. There's no harm in a girl who reads."

Constance looked like she had much more to say on the subject, so Mrs. Douglass broke in before the old argument could take hold and distract from the situation at hand. "Lady Crewe and I were just agreeing, my lord, that the boys should be forbidden from associating with Lord Richard in any case."

"Not sure how much good that would do." Lord Crewe shrugged. "They'll see him at school."

It was true. The boys would be starting at Eton in the fall. "But we can hope they'll be too busy there to get up to much mischief," Constance suggested.

Lord Crewe only shrugged. "Well, you would think that," he said, though he didn't elaborate.

"You both should know," Mrs. Douglass began hesitantly. "I had to send Charity to her room just now."

Lord Crewe looked up. "Our Charity? Has she been having a tipple as well? And only ten?" He chuckled at the idea.

"Of course not, but she was in Ian's room, sneaking him half her supper in her handkerchief, said it was cruel to starve him to death."

Lord Crewe just laughed again. "Well, at least someone is having a grand time in all this."

"Starving him to death." Constance chuckled as well. "Our little Charity is fit for the stage."

Fiona tried to laugh along, but Charity's infatuation with her son didn't seem like such a laughing matter, the longer it went on.

_1811_

Mrs. Douglass was wringing her hands, waiting for her mistress, staring at her rapidly cooling tea. She'd tried to drink it, hoping it would calm her nerves, but found her throat wouldn't allow it, nor would her shaking hands.

She tried to tell herself this was nothing that couldn't be fixed and perhaps there was some way to explain it where she wouldn't find herself and her son out on their ears without a reference. All she knew for sure was that Lady Crewe needed to know, otherwise nothing would be done. Something had to be done before things went any further. She'd seen the danger years ago, but she always thought it was all on Charity's end. She never thought her Ian would...

Then again, nothing had happened and it wasn't too late to remedy this if she could just talk to Lady Crewe. Though she tended to be very private, there were times she felt safe confiding in her mistress -- nothing too close to the truth, just hard experiences that may or may not be her own, things that might put things in perspective when her mistress thought her husband's tendency to shut himself into his study with work was the worst thing to be borne. 

This was no time for vagueness. This was a time to be out with it. Of course, she could think of no way to bring it up, not when Lady Crewe sat down, and straight away, launched into a long list of complaints about Prudence, not realizing it was her younger daughter who was most at risk of social ruin.

"...sits along the wall with the chaperones and her aunt, who just lets it happen. What was the point of sending her to London at all? Nineteen years old and not even the hint of an offer? How can there be if the girl doesn't even try?"

"Yes, how?" Mrs. Douglass echoed hollowly.

"Obviously, Muriel is the wrong person to take her out in society, but what choice do we have? If only the Duke would marry, get a nice, young, lively little wife. Surely, she could introduce Prudence to some nice young men." The current Duke of Dartmoor had only been in the position for the two years since his father passed, but he was over forty and there wasn't even a whisper of a match for him, unless the Society of Antiquaries was brimming with eligible women, which it was assuredly not, "but he has no interest in anything but old rocks and here we are, at the mercy of that woman and her cloth money," she sneered.

Fiona only nodded, staring miserably into her cold tea. "It must be exceedingly hard."

"And it's not as if she can distinguish herself at musicales, either. She never did take to the piano. Then again, neither did Charity."

Fiona's head lifted at the name, wondering how she could possibly tell her. "Yes, Charity never did."

"Mrs. Douglass, are you alright?"

"Me?"

"Why, you've barely spoken three words, Fiona. Are you unwell?"

Mrs. Douglass wondered when she would get a chance. "I'm perfectly well. I was just thinking how hard it must be for you, with your love of music."

"It really is too tragic," Constance agreed. "When I was young, I loved nothing more than singing and playing and dancing and it caught me more attention than just Lord Crewe's, you know. It's the only way, without a handsome dowry. And Lord knows my girls don't have much in the way of that. Even their connection to Dartmore doesn't help, with Muriel being the only one who bothers with them."

"Yes, it's all very hard," Fiona said again, still locked in her own troubles. It was especially hard for her, since Ian had rarely given her reason to be troubled. He'd always worked hard, took advantage of the opportunities and education Lord Crewe had provided. Though it was too much to ask, she dearly wished Lord Crewe had been able to afford to send him to Oxford with Ernest if only because Ian tried so very hard not to want it. Though in a few year's time, he'd surely have a secure position here, with a steady income and funds for retirement.

It was all she could have asked for him, considering her desperate need to start over, now ten years ago: safety and security. And now it seemed Ian was throwing all that away. A servant had no business with the daughter of the house. Though Ian insisted nothing was going on and that it certainly wouldn't happen again, how could she be sure without telling Lady Crewe and putting a stop to it?

"Well, at least Charity attends to her dancing lessons, not that she gets much occasion to dance here. We haven't given a dinner all year and, even with the village assemblies, there are at least three ladies for every gentleman. How will she be prepared to come out when the time comes?"

"Perhaps Charity should go to London," Fiona said quickly. That would be the answer. There would be no need to tell her mistress what she'd witnessed yesterday because it would be as if it hadn't happened at all.

"Charity in London? And only just sixteen? Surely she isn't ready for that."

"Yes, but you said yourself there isn't enough society here for the girls. It might do for Charity to gain some polish earlier than Prudence was started."

"The both of them are polish-resistant," Lady Crewe huffed. "But you might have something there, Fiona."

"Well, I only gained the idea from you," Mrs. Douglass insisted, knowing nothing would nudge her mistress more towards it than if she believed she'd thought of it herself. "You did say Lady Dartmore is much too old to be a proper companion for Prudence. Young girls are much more enthusiastic about balls and outings when they have another to dress and giggle with."

"If you ask me, Charity does far too much giggling. But it is a fine idea. Perhaps Charity is not so set in her ways as her sister. Perhaps there's hope for her yet."

"Indeed there is," Fiona agreed.  _And much more so if she is as far from Ian as possible._

**  
**

**Chapter One**

A full three days before Mrs. Douglass' panicked suggestion to her mother, Charity Crewe had very little to trouble her. In fact, she was downright excited. She was to have a new morning dress and, for the first time, it was not of her mother's choosing nor one that had been previously worn by Prudence.

She was not so silly that she believed a dress was the answer to all things, but she liked the idea of being seen in the buttery yellow with its pale lace edging on her way to church on Sunday. She didn't care so much who saw it  _at_ church or even after. It was the journey there that counted. Ian would be driving, after all, and there was no way he'd be able to avoid seeing her, or possibly handing her up into the carriage, perhaps meeting her eyes as he did so and lingering...

There was no hope for it. Charity Crewe was in love with Ian Douglass, always had been and always would be. She didn't think it would be easy, getting the world or even her parents to agree to a match between them someday, but it would be a sight easier if Ian could just love her as well. So far, her efforts had not been fruitful.

_1801_

Charity hadn't always been in love with Ian, truth be told. When Ian and Mrs. Douglass had first come to live with them, she didn't care for him at all. He was always playing with Ernest, even during lessons, and they were always much too loud about it.

One day, when they'd plunked an old board half over the duck pond, Ernest was especially rude, taking Clarissa, her second favorite doll, from her sickbed. By then, he'd already spoiled her first favorite, Louise. He'd said she was a French aristocrat and needed beheading for her crimes. She'd always hoped Louise would die of typhoid fever. She'd been nursing her through it diligently, but there was little hope. She'd been planning the funeral for days now, but since Louise's head never was recovered, it would be a much more somber and tragic affair. With a closed casket... or cigar box, as the case may be.

She tried to keep her dolls well away from Ernest after that, but now he had poor Clarissa, who was already suffering from influenza. Drowning in the pond would only worsen her condition!

"Give her back," she yelled, but Ernest had turned his cravat into an eye patch by then and there was no reasoning with him. "She's deathly ill!"

"Yes, she infected the whole ship." Ernest snapped his fingers and turned to his cohort. "That's her crime and she needs to walk the plank."

Ian nodded as if this wasn't ridiculous. "It's probably the only way."

"No, she doesn't." Charity tried to get her, but Ernest held Clarissa high over his head. "Clarissa has done nothing bad and neither did Louise!"

"Ah, so you're against us, too. It's mutiny! Right, then!" Ernest grabbed her around the middle. "You're going overboard!"

Ian stepped in front of him, however. "You can't do that. She'll fall in."

"That's the idea." Ernest grinned and hoisted Charity higher, trying to get her and her kicking legs over the rock bed and onto the shaky plank.

Ian pulled her away and tucked her behind him. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Don't be a blackguard. Hand her over."

"If anything, you're the blackguard. I'm the one defending the fair lady."

Charity let out a rather enamored gasp at that, but neither boy heard her.

"Ah, so it's come to a duel." Ernest shrugged and dropped Clarissa and picked up a stick. "Pistols or swords?"

Ian seemed to consider it very carefully. "Swords are better. Pistols are over too quick."

She was so in love by then that she even stayed to watch their very noisy fight.

_1806_

She was in some danger of falling out of love by the age of ten, one spring day when she saw her hero in a less than dignified light.

Back then, Ernest and Ian had been giving her the slip, on and off, all year. Before, they almost always let her play and fish with them, but by the time she was ten, it had grown so rare as to be nonexistent.

But that would all change when she showed them her new paper boat. She'd been working on it all morning and it was much better than the ones they were failing to sail yesterday - Mrs. Douglass had even helped her seal the bottom with wax — but she couldn't find them anywhere on the grounds.

She did find her sister in the morning room, however. "Prudence, can you help me find Ian?"

Prudence barely tore eyes away from her book. "Just Ian?"

"Ernest, too, I suppose. They said they were going to sail boats and I made the best one." She held it up.

"Then go sail it. Why do you need them?"

"So I can watch theirs sink while mine floats." She grinned. "Please. They've probably gone to the stream and I can't go into the woods alone."

"Which is probably why they went. Why would you want to play with them, anyhow?" Prudence patted the window seat beside her. "Come, Char, why not sit with me and read? It's dreadfully damp out."

"But you can bring your paints and make my victory immortal then sell it for a handsome price and become famous the world over."

Prudence laughed. "The only person who buys my paintings is Aunt Muriel. I'm sure it's not for my skills. I'd much rather paint a miniature of you," Prudence pulled lightly at one of Charity's forever-escaping curls, "if you could only sit still long enough."

"I've never seen much point in sitting still." She tugged her sister's sleeve. "It's been raining for days and it's so lovely now. Aren't you tired of this room?"

"A bit." Prudence stood. "I suppose I could read in the garden."

"Pru!"

"Yes, fine! But if mother gives me a hard time about my petticoats, I will be blaming you."

Charity glanced enviously at Prudence's full-length morning dress as they crossed the lawn. Sure, it was brown and didn't have any ruffles, but it was much better than the short dresses Mother put Charity in. Once, she'd tried putting another dress underneath, pulled lower to reach her ankles, but everyone just laughed and laughed when she came down for dinner.

But Prudence was a lady -- or close enough at fourteen. She was as tall as Mama and still growing and, though that awful Headley boy called her Prune Face, Charity thought she was lovely. Her hair was so black and smooth and shiny. Not like Charity's, which tended to stick out unless it was braided so tightly her head ached. And her eyes were as green as moss.

Pru thought that a rather un-poetic comparison when Charity said so, but Charity always thought moss was the best green. It was always so striking, standing out against the muddy water rather than dull like most of the grass and leaves in Yorkshire. Even in the spring, there was something about Yorkshire that always seemed to be covered with a grey film.

Besides all that, Prudence had such clean skin, not all messy with freckles like Charity's. She could stay in the sun for hours if she wanted and not get one speck, not that she spent much time in the sun. Pru had always preferred reading to playing. She was much more ladylike than Charity, whatever Mama had to say about it, and especially now that she wore the dress of a lady and wore her hair up like a lady.

Charity so wished to be a lady. She was trying to hurry it along, marking days off her calendar until she turned thirteen, but it didn't seem to make the three years required go any faster. She'd also stopped playing with her dolls. It was just as well, since the poor things always caught the worst diseases. Her last, a sweet and sickly little dear named Beatrice, had passed from Malaria two years ago. Her grave had been the most ornate. Prudence had learned clay sculpting by then and had fashioned the loveliest little angel for her tombstone.

Charity sighed as they passed it, overlooking the pond. It was lovely even though Ernie had broken its left wing while practicing archery. There were at least twenty graves and her family and the household staff had been nice enough to console her through most of the funerals. They were always terribly and tragically romantic. Prudence would even pick a special poem. Of course, that all changed when funerals stopped being some fascinating thing she read about in books, when her Great Uncle Edward went to his great reward.

She'd liked Uncle Edward. When they visited, he always had a sweet or two in his coat pockets, which he gave them when their mother or Aunt Muriel wasn't looking. When he passed away, she wanted to follow the procession through the village like she would for her dolls, but her mother said it wasn't done. "Ladies do not go to the grave. It is too upsetting," she'd said, but Aunt Muriel went, trudging after the men as they moved slowly to the churchyard. Prudence followed her before Mama, who already had a tight hold on Charity, could grasp her hand, something Mama promised to scold her for later.

When they came back, Aunt Muriel left the luncheon and went to her room and Prudence looked so pale that even Mama didn't have the heart to punish her.

"Was it wonderful?" Charity had asked. "I always imagine my poor little dolls sprouting wings and rising up to join the angels in song."

"Dolls don't die, Char," Prudence had said glumly. "This isn't pretend."

Of course, she knew that, that it wasn't anything close to real. But she always somehow thought it was practice, that a real funeral would be different from her play ones, that there would be something special that happened, like flowers opening all along the grave or a rainbow in the sky, something that showed the great reward was everything the parson, Mr. Howard, said it would be.

"Uncle Edward isn't coming back and Aunt Muriel will be alone until... Well, until..." Prudence stopped, sniffling.

"But what about the great reward?"

"Maybe they get it, but we don't. Aunt Muriel said we never stop losing people we love. She said it was the cost of loving someone, that you lose them or they lose you and it goes on forever."

Their mother had heard that last and seemed to forget that Prudence was too upset to be punished. "Prudence, stop that talk at once. Of course there is a great reward. Don't upset your sister." Mama pulled Pru away and, though she looked like to scold her, she seemed to think better of it as Charity spied her in the gardens moments later, holding Pru as she cried.

Later, Charity went to Aunt Muriel's rooms, wanting to know for sure if the Lord was really so unfair as to take everyone you loved.

"Heaven's sake, child, it's not fair or unfair." Aunt Muriel sat up in her bed, still fully dressed. "It's just the way it is." She swiped angrily at her eyes, as if they offended her by leaking.

"So everyone I love will... go away forever?"

Aunt Muriel seemed to soften a little when Charity's lower lip started trembling. "I wouldn't take it so personally. In a hundred years, neither you nor any of the people you know will be here. That's the reality. Time is short and we must make the most of what we have. Now you can spend your time shouting at the sky that it isn't fair or you can make what you can of it. Happiness or misery. It's entirely up to you."

Aunt Muriel was a hard woman, as their father -- who liked her a bit more than Mama did -- liked to say, but she did have a way of putting things that made it hard to argue. After that day, Charity didn't want to dwell on the idea of death or anything that would have her shouting at the sky. She wanted to be happy. Funerals lost their romance. Beatrice had been her last. Her final dolls had been distributed among the girls in the village, where she imagined they lived long and happy lives uninterrupted by disease, as she looked to the future. As St. Paul instructed, she would put away childish things. She'd become a lady.

Maybe then Ian would spare her more than a look.

She glanced aside at Pru, still hiking with her to the stream. Her petticoats  _were_  getting a little muddy. She hoped Mama wouldn't give her too much trouble.

"Pru, do you think Mama will ever let me have a real dress?"

"It will happen soon enough. Don't be in such a rush to be poked with pins."

Charity frowned. "I think I could put up with it for a ball gown, also a ball."

"I've only been to one dinner with a little dancing, but it's nothing special."

"That's only because you don't dance. Mama said so."

"It's all so complicated and embarrassing and everyone else seems to know every step. Not to mention stupid Richard—" Pru stopped, glowering.

"What did stupid Richard do?"

"Don't repeat that," Prudence said quickly. "I'm not supposed to disrespect someone of his rank now that he's inherited, so Mama keeps telling me."

"But what did he do?"

"Besides calling me Prunella and Prune Face and Pittance?" Pru shook her head. "It's silly. I made notes on the cotillion and he asked me to dance. I knew I should have refused, but Mama wouldn't allow it. I was supposed to say yes to anyone who asked, even him, for practice. He only asked me so he could drop my notes on the floor and very loudly ask if I wanted them back. You should have seen Mary Hartley giggle."

"I think Mary Hartley is the one with a prune face," Charity said. They stopped at the stream. Apart from the flies, there was no one. "Maybe they went upstream. The stream is bigger on stupid Richard's property."

"I told you not to repeat that," Pru reminded her as they trudged along the bed.

"But if he's always being stupid, it should be repeated. Don't you think?"

Pru laughed. "I do, but Mama wouldn't agree."

"I've heard her call him worse," Charity whispered, as if there was anyone to overhear.

"That's only because she thinks he'll lead Ernie into sin and debauchery."

"What's debauchery?"

"A word you shouldn't know. And neither should I. Come, we've searched enough. Let's..." Pru stopped, cocking her head.

Charity couldn't think why until she heard it, too — a loud, whooping laugh. It sounded like Ernest. Ian wasn't much for laughter, at least not the loud kind. "I knew it. They're sailing without me."

Prudence called after her, but Charity was already off, running farther up the stream, though she still couldn't see them. Then she heard them again, a bit quieter now. It was coming from the cottage. She usually stayed away from there. Mr. Ayles, Headley Hall's gamekeeper, was notoriously nasty, especially whenever he caught Charity tripping his traps, one of many reasons she was not allowed in the woods alone. Maybe that sound hadn't been a laugh. Maybe Ernest was caught in one of his dreadful rabbit traps!

She ran toward the cottage, calling Ernie's name as Prudence called hers somewhere behind. It wasn't Ernie who stepped out of the shack, however, it was Ian. He stared at her, wide-eyed and wobbling. "Charity? What are you doing?" There was something strange about the way he said it, drawn out and sort of fuzzy.

"Rescuing you, I think. Is it a trap?"

"Is what—"

"For heaven's sake, Charity!" Prudence drew up beside her, gasping. "Don't run off so... What's going on?"

"I think they're being tortured," Charity said in horror, "by Mr. Ayles."

Ian shook his head, the rest of him sort of followed and he swayed to the side. "No one's bein' tor—"

"Whass'goin' on?" Now it was Ernest, who looked more than wide-eyed on coming out the door. He looked downright terrified.

"That's what I'd like to know," Prudence said tightly.

"I thought you were supposed to be keeping look-out, Monk!" The new voice came from inside the cottage.

"Is he in there?" Prudence demanded, marching past Ian and grabbing Ernest roughly by shirt as she went.

No one asked who she meant as Richard Headley came out next, or stumbled out, quickly followed by Prudence, pushing at him while still keeping a hold on Ernest.

"Hey! Stop it, Prune Face!" Stupid Richard was laughing, which only proved how stupid he was. Even Ernest knew not to get on the bad side of Prudence when her ears turned red.

"He is twelve years old, you disgusting, drunken, despicable..."

"Drunken?" Charity gasped.

Ian pulled her away. "It's not like that. Now run along and..."

Prudence was still going, also somehow stuck on the letter D. "...dissolute, degraded..."

Richard was still laughing. "Do you want to add deranged or dastardly?"

"Debauched," she finished on a sneer.

"Debauched?" Richard laughed louder. "If you knew what that meant, Pittance..."

"I know exactly what it means!"

"Doubt it. Who'd debauch a prune face like you?"

Ian started to pull Charity away again. "You shouldn't listen to this, Char. Come on."

Charity tried to hold her ground. "But I want to know what debauched means."

"No, you don't. Now get home before you get into trouble with the rest of us."

She had to smile up at him, even in the middle of all the madness. Ian was always trying to save her. No wonder she was so madly...

That was when he vomited on her shoes. That was also when Prudence punched Richard right in the face. It was complete and total chaos.

And that was before the gamekeeper showed up.

~~~

Later, after she'd had a bath, her shoes were declared hopeless, and everyone had a proper scolding, she went to find Ian after supper, but he seemed less than grateful for the food, and still a bit green.

He turned away in his bed. "I think being sent to meals would be more of a punishment. See if Ernest wants it."

"I would, but I saw Pru dropping some rolls into her lap for him. I think she feels bad about boxing his ears."

"She should feel bad for Richard. He'll be sporting a bruise for days now."

"I don't think she feels bad about that at all. She abominates him." She put her napkin on his dresser.

Ian laughed, then grimaced and grasped his stomach. "Is that one of your new words? Like debauched?"

"I still don't know what it means."

"Well, I won't be the one to tell you."

"Why does Richard call you Monk?"

"Because he and Ernest think I'm not much fun. Now, go on." He shooed at her when she made to sit on the bed, so she knelt near it instead. "You shouldn't be in here. You'll get in trouble."

"No, I won't. I'm performing an act of Christian charity."

He smiled a little. "Still living up to your name? It's still not a good idea risking the wrath of your mother. Not that anyone ever punishes  _you_."

Charity frowned at that. "They could. I just haven't done anything much yet."

"Well, try not to. I like you better the way you are."

She smiled widely. He was so much nicer than Ernest, no wonder she liked him best. Then again, she liked him in a much different way. She wasn't as much of a reader as Pru, but sometimes, when Pru read Shakespeare, she'd mark all the best lovey bits for Charity. Pru found them silly, but Charity thought they were glorious.

 _Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,_  
_But bears it out ev'n to the edge of doom._

 _The edge of doom_. It was just so achingly lovely. Whenever she heard anything romantic, she thought of Ian, so she surely must be in love. And maybe it was time he knew.

Ian was still shooing her off gallantly, protecting her from punishment. "Go on. If you're in here, I'll be the one to get in trouble. Mother will think I told you to bring me food. I know what she'll do then."

Or maybe he was protecting himself. He was still very gallant and brave. "What does she do to you?"

"Besides the punishing, she gives me this look and calls me a Douglass through and through. That's the worst part."

"Well, I only know two people named Douglass, so that sounds nice to me."

He gave her a wry smile. "I don't think she means it nicely." He frowned heavily. "She doesn't talk about my father much, so it must be pretty bad."

"Do you remember him?"

"I remember some." He shook his head. "I don't want to talk about it."

"But I want to hear about it."

"Not if you get in trouble. Now..."

"I'm not afraid of getting in trouble. And I've been punished. Don't you remember when I took Mama's jewelry box to make you and Ernest play treasure hunt with me? I was made to practice piano for two hours every day for a week."

"I'd forgot." He winced. "It was a punishment for all of us."

She'd pout over that if he wasn't right. "I wouldn't mind being punished even worse. Not for you. Even to the edge of doom."

He weakly reached a hand toward her and, for a second, she thought he might caress her cheek or her hair, but no. He poked her nose. "You're a fine little sister. I should tell Ernest to stop calling you Calamity."

She slapped his hand away. "Stop that."

"What? I'm only saying what a good little sis--"

"I don't want to be your--"

He laughed. "Alright. I take it back."

"And I'm taking this back." She stood and strode to his dresser, snatching up her napkin. "I no longer care if you starve."

"Good God, Charity! What are you doing in here?"

She froze at Mrs. Douglass' voice and gingerly put the napkin back. "I was simply performing an act of Christian charity. No one deserves to cruelly starve to death."

"What nonsense! You go straight to your room. Your mother will deal with you later."

It was fine by her. She didn't want to be anywhere near Ian Douglass. Not for at least a week and maybe not ever again.

_1811_

Of course, Charity didn't fall out of love then, nor was she any closer now. Maybe it would help if she was able to see Ian more often. Pru liked to say "familiarity breeds contempt," usually referring to Mama and her constant needling.

"Do you think they called her Constance for her constant needling?" Pru would muse.

"Maybe for her constant headaches," Charity might suggest.

"Surely it's the rest of us getting the constant headaches."

Pru was always much better at wordplay, even when Charity only imagined it. Lord, how she missed Pru.

In any case, she wouldn't mind a bit more familiarity with Ian. She wasn't a child anymore, begging for his company or running after him and Ernest to let them play with her. Ian didn't play at all these days. Ernest probably did. He was at Oxford, but she hadn't heard the best things about his behavior there.

No, Ian worked. If he wasn't in the garden, he was in the stables or fixing something for the tenants or locked up with her father in his study.  Whenever she did see him now, he always managed to do something annoying, like tug on his hat or even his forelock and call her Miss Crewe when it was ridiculous and stuffy and not who she was at all. He never called her Char anymore and, even though she detested it, he didn't even poke her nose.

He always told her he was too busy for her to hang about, even when she tried to help — possibly especially when she tried to help. She barely spoke to him these days and that included today, and not only because she couldn't find him at all. He'd driven her to her fitting in the cart and the ride seemed interminable, with how little he spoke and the very sparsely worded answers he gave to each of her queries.

"Do you like it most in the garden or the stables?"

"Both."

"I'd probably like the stables best. Prudence's mare is very sweet."

"That she is."

"Papa always says he'll get me my own mare someday, but it's not in the coffers."

"Not yet."

"It's possible I'll have to wait till I'm married to have my own mare."

"You might at that."

"Will you buy me a mare if we marry?"

Well, she didn't ask that. She was quite sure he'd have stopped the cart and run away if she had, leaving her alone in the lane. Right now, she was just alone in the square. Not that she expected Ian to wait outside the dressmaker's. His mother had likely given him a list for the shops. She wished she had her new dress on already, imagining him seeing her in the square and dropping all his parcels in abject worship so he could take her hands and declare that he saw her, finally saw her!

But it wouldn't be delivered until tomorrow at the earliest.

She'd been wearing Pru's older stuff, made over, for two years now. It hadn't taken much alteration at first. Pru was so much taller that even her first dresses had to be taken up for Charity. But they didn't need to be taken in, her mother had noted sourly, and now there was no room left for taking them out.

Where Prudence was slight and willowy, Charity was plump, at least in certain areas — indecent areas, her mother liked to point out with an accusing sort of look, as if it were somehow Charity's own doing that her bosom had suddenly increased over the winter. Charity certainly didn't want it. Her corset pinched ever so much more now.

Still, it wouldn't do for Charity to hide away or keep wearing voluminous shawls over everything since Charity was out now, at least among the neighbors, and it was nearly summer. No, Charity had to have dresses, at least three to start. And this was the first of them. 

The fact that her mother trusted her to pick her own cut and fabric would have meant much more if her mother hadn't taken to bed with a headache after Aunt Muriel's last letter. She had not seen fit to emerge since, not even for a dress fitting. 

She believed the exact words were "dress yourself in a burlap sack if you like. It makes no difference, since none of my daughters will ever be married."

It seemed Prudence was not making the most of her time in London. Charity suspected as much, since she had a letter from Prudence at least every other day on how dreadful it was.

_There are hundreds of dances and one is expected to execute all of them perfectly and, if one cannot, one is expected to converse, but never on anything interesting. Sometimes, the food is good, I suppose, but no one is supposed to be seen eating any of it._

She wished Prudence would just come home and stay. Mama was ever so much easier to take when at least half, or honestly most, of her attention was on Prudence. That and, obviously, she missed her sister terribly. She even missed Ernest a little, being the only one left at home. The only company she had was Emilia, and considering she only saw Emilia when she dressed her hair or helped her out of her corset, it wasn't the same. Emilia rebuffed all of her attempts at conversation, or conversation that didn't involve hair or corsets.

It was a shame. She needed a friend much more than she needed a lady's maid. Emilia wasn't even a lady's maid, really. She was more of a kitchen maid who happened to possess some of the skills of a lady's maid. She'd only been with them for a year because Cook was getting on "and how was she expected to craft culinary masterpieces out of dwindling supplies and with no help to boot?" Sometimes Cook still let Charity in the kitchens. Though Charity often offered her help, Cook always said it was no place for her now. 

When Emilia came along, she was actually a little envious as Cook said she had a "deft hand" and Charity wished for the days when Cook let her break the eggs and whisk the batter and said no one did it better.

Still, Emilia was hard not to like, with her soft Yorkshire lilt and her ready laugh, and Charity did so admire the way she dressed her hair. Cook thought it was quite above the needs of a kitchen maid, but it was so lovely that Charity had to ask Emilia to dress hers for dinner. Sally, the housemaid, wasn't very happy about that as it had been within her duties. But she was so rough about it that Charity wondered she had any hair left. Emilia was much better at it, always knowing how to brush so it never pinched and even making hair as stubborn as Charity's look positively elegant.

Yes, she liked Emilia. She was so young and pretty and she could be ever so much more lively if she didn't have to always get back to the pies. Charity had asked her mother about having Emilia simply come up from the kitchen. She'd have much more chance of making a friend of Emilia if she wasn't so busy, but theirs was a small staff -- only Ian, Emilia, Sally, Dawes, Mrs. Douglass, Cook, and the occasional tutor. Until the estate became solvent or even profitable, which her father said would never happen, it would remain that way. It was really no wonder no one had time to talk to her if everyone was so deuced busy. It would be much easier if she were allowed to help, something she rather enjoyed when she was little.

Maybe Prudence had been right, always telling her to stop being in such a rush to grow up. Sixteen had already proved to be the least exciting year of her life. Then again, she'd only been sixteen for three weeks, and maybe that would all change now. She was quite satisfied with her first dress and the others would also be much more to her taste. They were much less stiff and ruffled than the ones her mother favored. Though she'd gazed longingly at a bolt of deep green satin, she was not permitted to wear such colors yet.

She did have a rather nice pink gown coming, but that would be for Mrs. Keen's dinner, which wasn't for a whole week. And there was almost no hope of Ian seeing it without a cloak covering most of it. Well, not unless she orchestrated it somehow. Perhaps she could drop something in the cart, something small enough that it wouldn't be found for a week. Then she could find her way to the stables after dressing and Ian would surely drop his pitchfork, stride to her, and... 

She couldn't get much farther than that, even in her imaginings. She was trying to figure out if he would wash his hands first as ruining her new dress didn't make for a very good fantasy. But that wouldn't be very passionate. Perhaps he was washing his hands when she interrupted him. Perhaps he was washing more than that and barely dressed.

She blushed heavily as she passed the church, hoping  the parson, Mr. Howard, was exaggerating when he said thought was as good a sin as deed. Though she hadn't done very many shocking things in her life, or very many things at all, her mind was a rather shocking place sometimes. Her thoughts of Ian might start innocently romantic, but there were moments when they deteriorated, as Prudence would say, from Milton to Chaucer.

She finally spied the cart between the tavern and the baker's. She highly doubted Ian was in the tavern. He'd not been caught with drink since the incident with Lord Richard, which was more than anyone could say for Ernest, and Lord Richard, for that matter.

Charity should have been relieved to find him in the baker's instead, and she might have been if she hadn't found him kissing the baker's daughter.

 

**Author's Note:**

> That's all for now!


End file.
